


the harder they come

by fyborg23



Series: brass in pocket [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Hate Sex, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Flyers do well enough within the West Division, but playing-- or rather, fighting-- the Penguins is fucking hard. Giroux fucking hates the Pittsburgh Penguins. Especially their head coach, Crosby, the dirty bluenosed fuckface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the harder they come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayal/gifts).



> Taken from my tumblr [post's tags](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/post/74166246416), which was enabled by [Ayal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ayal/pseuds/ayal)!
> 
> Historical notes/warnings: Story takes place between October 1971 and April 1972, with Claude Giroux as the Flyers coach and Sidney Crosby as the Penguins coach. The roster details of that season remain the same, although the Penguins-Flyers rivalry depicted here is _much_ nastier than it was during that season. The Pens finished fourth in the West*, while the Flyers finished fifth at the end of the 1971-1972 season. **Warnings for gendered insults, unsafe sex and 1970s attitudes.**
> 
>  
> 
> *The Penguins and the Flyers were grouped into the West division, ignoring actual geographic location. Interesting Factoid: The Vancouver Canucks were in the East division. 

The Flyers do well enough within the West Division, but playing-- or rather, _fighting_ \-- the Penguins is fucking hard. Giroux fucking hates the Pittsburgh Penguins. Especially their head coach, Crosby, the dirty bluenosed fuckface. And, joy, the powers-that-be see it fit to jam both teams together five times a season. As if sharing the same state with _them_ wasn't fun enough.

Crosby fucking puts his fourth line out on the ice during the opening faceoff in the first game of the new season. No fourth line of an expansion hockey team is going to be fit to skate; especially not these pigeons who have wider necks than heads.

Giroux grinds his teeth hard enough he feels his fillings start to heat up, and puts his fourth line out. Crosby wants to play for keeps?

Then they'll fucking play for keeps.

The puck doesn't even drop from the referee's hand before Kelly skates across the red line and hip checks the shortest guy on the Pens, Hicke, who's 5'8 with skates on, and sends Hicke flying hard against the boards.

Naturally, MacLeish caves in the face of his counterpart with his fist when he objects, and a donnybrook springs up, blood splattering the ice.

Crosby blows up, his stupid accent making Giroux's own look good, yelling at the referee about "interference", and "violating the code"--

Giroux shouts back, " _Casse-toi, baise le code_ , what the fuck are you talking about, it's _hockey_."

"Shove it, Frenchie, like you know what hockey is, I almost feel sorry for the numbnuts on your team!" Crosby volleys, standing up on the bench to be seen over the divider. All of the boys on the bench take exception to being called numbnuts, especially Foley, who shudders up like the man-mountain he is and looks over at Giroux, waiting for the order.

Giroux shakes his head: _no_. But he does hop up on the board, lean over, and says, "At least we have nuts!"

The Igloo is going fucking nuts, that's what, and the roar of the crowd matches the roar in Giroux's blood. Crosby's eyes flash dangerously, and he jumps up on the boards easily, his feet never wavering from the mark, and he looks down his nose at Giroux, sneers, and says the greatest load of bullshit Giroux's heard since Juniors. Crosby's fucking pissed off, his accent going all foghorn and his fat mouth moving rapidly as he _yaps yaps yaps_ like the demented dog he is.

Giroux stands up on the boards, leans on the sanction, and says, "Eat shit."

The entire Penguins beach has to pull Crosby back by the flaps of his hideous jacket.

Giroux mouths, "Fuck you," and has to smirk at the look in Crosby's eyes.

 

#

  


Crosby may be shorter than Giroux but he's _solid_ and pins Giroux to the mattress. He sneers down at Giroux, but Giroux slides his hand down Crosby's dick, making him moan.

Crosby scrapes his nails down Giroux's side, smirking at Giroux twitching underneath him, and Giroux digs his fingertips into Crosby's ass, tells him he has an ass like a woman, such lovely childbearing hips-- Crosby grinds against Giroux, sneering, "Too bad I have a dick", and Giroux turns an ugly color.

Giroux surges up to kiss Crosby to shut the fucker up. Giroux bites his lip, hard. He pulls away, drags his thumb over Crosby's plump bottom lip and smirks, "Bet these lips have been wrapped around a lot of cocks."

Crosby tongues Giroux's thumb, sucks just hard enough that his cheeks _hollow_ , pulls off and says, "Yeah, Giroux, you thought about that a lot? You fall asleep thinking about me?"

Giroux refuses to get thrown off balance, attacks with,"What if I did? That makes you hard, doesn't it, Crosby, thinking about sucking me off?"

Crosby smirks and bites Giroux's thumb, says, "Making you cry does." Crosby reaches down and lays his hand on Giroux's neck, his thumb digging in just so, "Especially when you lose."

Giroux yanks Crosby's head by his hair, exposing the solid cord in his throat, and Giroux licks at the base of his neck, hisses, "Fuck you."

Crosby slides his hand over his own cock and says, "You wish, Giroux."

Crosby yanks Giroux's hands up to the top of the mattress and holds them there, his grip bruising Giroux's wrists. Giroux has to bite his lip to stop his moan, but Crosby catches the way his throat quivers.

"I should've known you would like to be pinned to the bed like the little bitch you are," Crosby says, his face crying out for a fist in it.

And Giroux can't think, can't say anything other than, "Fuck you," and Crosby drags his dick over Giroux's, making Giroux twitch, so the fucker does it _again_.

Giroux digs his teeth into his bicep to hide his moan, and Crosby leans his weight on Giroux's arm, breathes hot and nasty near Giroux's face before he drags his teeth on Giroux's throat. Giroux rocks his hips harder against Crosby, hoping to give him a bruise that'll grow purple and black.

"Look at you," Giroux manages to force out against Crosby's working mouth, "kissing like a girl."

Crosby pulls back, and murmurs, "Who's the girl in this situation--" yanks at Giroux's hair, "your hair's like a fucking hippie, you some secret flower child, _Clooooood_."

Giroux grinds his teeth; Anglos fucking butcher 'Claude' but Crosby assassinates it. Giroux curls his lip, says, "I'm not the one dicking around when things could be done, _Cindy_."

Two can play at this game.

Crosby looks at Giroux, almost as if he wants to reconsider _this_ very ill-advised situation, and spreads Giroux's legs. Giroux's thighs twinge with the speed and force of him pushing them apart.

Giroux gasps as Crosby slides down, tongues at Giroux's asshole. Giroux gets pinpricks of heat all over him-- it's so fucking _dirty_ , just like Crosby.

Giroux's cock twitches with a surge of blood. But Crosby isn't letting up. He pushes his tongue in further and Giroux doesn't stop his moan this time. And then Crosby fucking twists his tongue and Giroux moans louder, hips twitching. Crosby then lightly runs a finger up Giroux's length--

"Fuck, _Crosby_ ," Giroux grits out, "You fucking tease."

Crosby smirks and stares up at Giroux as he drags his tongue up Giroux's ass and it's so warm and wet; Giroux can't think about anything but trying to find some friction, some pressure, _anything_ against his cock.

Giroux inches his hand towards his cock, fucking himself on Crosby's tongue, and digs his heels against the mattress. Crosby digs his fingers into the flesh of Giroux's ass, his tongue making Giroux swear in Quebecois. Crosby's such a fucking angel and so _wicked_ , and Giroux gives himself a firm stroke-- only to be stopped by Crosby's broad hand on his, squeezing the bones in Giroux's hand together until they ache, reminding Giroux of the bad slashes he took years ago.

Crosby's eyes smolder, hot and dark, as he says, "Can't fucking wait? You just have to spread your legs for me?"

Giroux growls in frustration, wanting to push Crosby's head back to where it was-- and Crosby fucking leers. "Got lotion?" Crosby asks. Giroux gestures towards the end table, and Crosby flexes over, showing each oblique on his side, as he snags the lotion off the end table.

"You going to turn over?" Crosby asks, making Giroux snort. _Ostie d'maillet_. The day Giroux turns his back on Sidney fucking Crosby is the day he's going to hang up his skates.

"No." Giroux says, cradling his cock with his hands, smearing precome all over himself. Crosby licks his lips just before his face shutters, and Crosby pours a metric fuckton of lotion all over his fingers, leaving spots of lotion all over the cheap garish bedspread.

Giroux snarls, "Get on with it, princess." Crosby tosses the bottle back onto the end table, and slides his fingers into Giroux. Giroux clenches his teeth at the stinging and burning, claws at Crosby's shoulders.

"Behave, I might make this good for you, _Flyer_."

Giroux looks up at Crosby, says, "I hate 'might'," pushes back against Crosby's fingers, feeling himself stretch out too thin, too quickly, but fuck if that doesn't make Crosby's eyelids flutter.

Crosby pushes in another finger and bites his lip hard as Giroux squirms around them and Crosby twists them to watch the way Giroux's eyes squeeze shut and to hear him mutter "Fuck," under his breath.

Giroux's hand is still wrapped around his dick, his strokes are erratic-- a touch too hard, then too loose-- but he's so full of Crosby's fingers. "Get the fuck on with it," he says, grinding down on them, feeling them curl inside him.

"God, you want it so bad," Crosby mocks, "You slut." Giroux looks up at Crosby's obscene mouth forming the words, his lips red from biting down on them, and Giroux fantasizes about shoving Crosby down and fucking his face--

Crosby slicks more lotion on his dick and finally, _finally_ , pushing into Giroux. He's gripping Giroux's hips, digging dark bruises into his skin, and Giroux hates him so much.

They both claw at each other, struggling to establish a rhythm, and Crosby flicks his hips upwards, hard. Giroux thumps his head against the pillow, rocking his hips, chasing his pleasure--

Crosby pulls Giroux deeper onto his dick, fascinated by the slide of Giroux's ass, by the beads of sweat on Giroux's collarbone, the way Giroux's mouth moves as he murmurs in French. Giroux opens his eyes, locks them on Crosby's, and they both show their teeth to each other in a parody of smiles. Giroux arches his back, rubbing his prostate against Crosby's dick, and Crosby drags a hand through Giroux's chest hair, almost tangling his fingers in the ginger strands.

Giroux yanks Crosby closer with his hands on Crosby's ass, says in Crosby's ear, "Would love to fuck--" smacks Crosby's ass, equally loud and sharp-- "this."

That pushes Crosby on even more, makes him speed up his thrusts until he knows for sure he's nailing Giroux's prostate, and Crosby leans down, pants, "That a threat?" swivels his hips in such a way that makes Giroux whine through his nose-- so Crosby does it again, screws Giroux up higher and higher until Giroux jerks himself off harshly, his hand a blur on his dick.

Crosby smiles _hard_ , and rocks in, stays still. Giroux's knees drop off to the sides, and Crosby watches Giroux slide himself back closer, feels the tightness of Giroux's ass, sees Giroux make himself come with one last jerk--

Crosby smears his hand through the come on Giroux's belly, smacks it against Giroux's side, and uses Giroux, slides his dick in and out like Giroux doesn't have any say, until Crosby comes to the smug look on Giroux's face, leaking between Giroux's legs.

Giroux pushes Crosby off easily, ignoring the look on Crosby's face. He slithers out of bed, his body a stark white against the smoke-laden hotel curtains, and stretches easily. Crosby's winded, can't go on further, watches Giroux shove himself back into that plaid shit he calls a suit. Crosby licks his lips at watching Giroux button his bruises away; Giroux is going to feel his heart beat a tattoo along those marks for a week.

"Let's do this again, fuckface," Crosby puts out there. Giroux looks at Crosby, takes in Crosby's nudity, and drags his eyes up to Crosby's face, so slickly Crosby feels oily, and Giroux smiles wide enough for Crosby to see that stupid gap in his teeth.  

"We're going to beat your ass into the grass, Crosby." Giroux threatens-- or promises-- and walks out of the room. The door clicks behind him. Crosby rolls over on his back and says, " _Fuck_."

 

#

  


_Criss_ , if Giroux gets pelted with a battery _again_. Bad enough he's soaked in beer, from head to his very-expensive, formerly-favorite loafers, but now the _fine_ people of the Spectrum are throwing batteries at him. Why can't they fucking aim for the bad guys?

Beer does tend to fuck up accuracy.

"FUCK!" Giroux hears from the other side, and sees Crosby clutch at his head, breathe sharply through his teeth while he's sending out his second line.

Giroux may lick his lip when he sees the red trickling down the side of Crosby's face, pooling in the dark brown of Crosby's eyebrow-- _Fuck,_ the boys need to backcheck!

Giroux screams at the guys during intermission, his puce face clashing badly with his black shirt and orange plaid suit, and after about 15 minutes the Flyers pull themselves together, thank fuck.

The Flyers charge out onto the ice in third period, orange on white, and Dornhoefer, bless his withered little heart, starts a full-on brawl.

Giroux shrugs when the referee demands he control his boys, already! The Spectrum is cheering; they got just what they paid for, and Crosby's losing his shit, yelling at one of the linesmen, suggesting he should get a white cane and stuff it up his ass.

Giroux smirks.

Crosby's going to pay a grand for _that_. It takes fifteen minutes for the Pens to cry "uncle" before the ref stuffs both boxes with half of each team, including the number one goalie for the Flyers, and the Pens' third goalie.

Giroux makes the appropriate noises when the referee skates up to him-- because both Van Impe and Gendron are in the box, bleeding all over each other-- and pretends he's sorry such a barbaric thing ever happened, oh no, what a shame.

Crosby scoffs at the penalties the Penguins get, but Giroux can tell he's pissed; Crosby's temple is bleeding again, blood getting onto that blouse of Crosby's.

The Flyers win, this time, a resounding 6-1, and the bench roars in celebration. Giroux smirks to himself, seeing the opposing goalie do the swift skate of shame off the ice and Crosby glower at the scoreboard.

As Giroux walks out of the locker room, still smelling like booze and now smelling like cigarette smoke, he sees Crosby slouching against the cinder block walls in a jacket with lapels large enough to double as jet wings. Crosby's got a browning stream of blood down his cheek, and the glare he gives Giroux doesn't stop Giroux from reaching out, smearing that blood with his fingers, and then sucking the blood off them.

Crosby's eyes are dark and heavy on him.

  


#

  


Giroux shoves Crosby to his knees and makes him suck his dick, tangles his fingers into Crosby's slicked-back hair just on principle, tells him, "Your mouth, Crosby, _god_ , it looks even better with my dick in it," rubs a hand over the bump his dick is making in Crosby's cheek just to punctuate his point. Giroux glides his dick slowly, rubbing the head slowly over Crosby's wicked tongue, listening and feeling him groan.

Crosby looks up at Giroux, sucks extra harder, digs his fingers into the cheap polyester fabric, and Giroux thumps his head against the wall. Fucking _Crosby_ \-- Giroux thrusts into his mouth, and Crosby moans around Giroux, almost tearing Giroux's pants off his thighs.

Giroux pushes Crosby's head away from his dick, yanks him up to dig his teeth into Crosby's bruising lip, hands fisted in the lapels of Crosby's suit.  Giroux kisses him hard, shoving his tongue in his mouth, and he reaches down to grope Crosby's ass--

Giroux breaks away to growl in Crosby's ear,"Gonna fuck you against the wall, Crosby. Get my dick in that ass."

Crosby quirks his eyebrow, wraps Giroux's tie around his hand, yanks on it hard, and slams Giroux against the wall. Giroux grips Crosby's face in between his thumb and pointer finger, goes in for another kiss, and slewfoots Crosby into a corner, leaving small cracks on the wall.

Giroux unzips Crosby's pants and strips them off those ridiculous thighs, _Jésus_ , they should be banned. Crosby tilts his hips upwards, rubs his dick against the front of Giroux's pants with a smirk on his face, the cocksucker, those were brand-new.

Crosby wraps a hand around his dick and slowly pulls his hand up it, staring at Giroux with dark eyes. Giroux knocks his hand away and squeezes Crosby's dick, just on the edge of pain. Crosby makes a whining noise in the back of his throat, pink suffusing those fucking cheeks. The sound makes Giorux smile nastily, smug at making the supposedly unflappable Crosby fall apart.

Giroux yanks on Crosby's hair, pulling his head back to bite his neck, sucks hard, trying to bruise the pale skin.

"Want your players to see this. So they know what a slut you are," Giroux says into his neck, breath hot against Crosby's sweaty skin, teeth brushing against the bruises.

Crosby huffs a breath, says, "Rich from a man who got nailed last time."

Giroux pulls on Crosby's nipple, making Crosby twitch against him. Giroux digs his teeth into Crosby's skin, tasting that acrid smoke that fucking swirls around in locker rooms, and _Christ_ , Crosby's tolerable like _this_ , still and waiting against him.

Giroux kicks Crosby's legs wider, slides his dick up against Crosby's balls, teases at Crosby's asshole, and grinds against him. Crosby's hair is leaving a greasy smear on the wall, his cologne is overwhelming, but fuck, Giroux wants to destroy him.

Crosby looks at Giroux, challenging, just like he looked over at him right before Crosby went in to punch his rookie, forces out, "You going to sweet-talk me? Take me out on a date, you sissy?"

Giroux smiles mockingly, pats Crosby on the side of his face, coos, "So sweet, just like--" Giroux scrapes a dry fingertip against Crosby's asshole, making Crosby shudder angrily, "this ass."

Giroux slides lip balm out of his pocket, squeezes all that he can out, and slathers it against Crosby's asshole.

Crosby snarls, "You fucker, you're going to ruin my pants."

Giroux cackles, "Oh, were they your lucky pants? Too bad your boys lost, then."

Crosby scowls and pulls on Giroux's wild hair, his fingers tangling in the coarse strands. Giroux smirks and noses against Crosby's neck, tongue flicking out just to make those marks he's leaving behind _hurt_ more.

Giroux yanks Crosby closer by his hips and bites his shoulder as he slides in. He grunts and digs his teeth in harder as he fucks up into Crosby's obscene ass. It really should be illegal; it's perfectly curved, and tight around Giroux's dick. He wants to tongue Crosby until Crosby's thighs shake around Giroux's head, thinks about how hot it would look to see _his_ come on it, in it.

" _Calice de dieu_ , Crosby, you're better than the girls I've fucked," he laughs harshly in Crosby's ear and and rocks his hips forward, the force of their thrusts pushing Crosby up the bed.

"Like you've ever fucked a girl," Crosby smirks, looking up at Giroux through heavy lids, his thighs closing in on Giroux's sides, pushing back against his dick.

Giroux's too busy reveling in the tightness of Crosby's ass, the look on Crosby's face, to answer him. Not that Crosby needs to be answered. He's too busy riding Giroux's dick, looking like a whore with his head tossed back, his fucking neck one giant bruise.

Giroux grins, grinds his hips against Crosby's, and slams Crosby's hands up against the fake wooden headboardl. Crosby pushes back, his arms writhing in Giroux's grip, and tightens his ass on Giroux's cock, making Giroux bite his lip. The look of triumph on Crosby's face is insufferable, and Giroux fucks harder into Crosby, making Crosby take it--

Crosby thumps his head back, his eyelids fluttering, and Giroux's eyes are fucking fixed on the purpling ovals on Crosby's shoulders, the red outlining the muscles in Crosby's working arms. There's nothing but the slap of skin against skin as they fuck each other, their motions frenzied and _fuck_ , Giroux loves Crosby's ass.

Crosby knocks off Gioux's hands, reaches down to jerk himself off. It doesn't take long for him to come, ass tightening almost painfully over Giroux's dick.

Giroux's thrusts get more erratic as he slams in even harder, gasping. Crosby squirms, oversensitive, on his dick, which just winds Giroux up more, feeling him slide around on his dick like _that_.

"Crosby, your fucking ass, _crisse_ ," Giroux says breathlessly. More curses tumble out of his mouth as he comes into Crosby's ass, hot and filthy, Crosby's thighs shaking against Giroux's sides.

Giroux pulls out, making Crosby wince slightly, and they tuck each other back into their tight pants. Crosby yanks Giroux in by his belt, and squeezes his oversensitive cock, sending sparks up Giroux's spine. Giroux smirks and grabs Crosby's face to kiss him.

Crosby pushes his hands away, looks murderously at him.

"See you later, Crosby," Giroux coos and slaps Crosby's ass.

Crosby grits his teeth and checks Giroux against the wall. Crosby looks like he's been fucked and put away wet, which is exactly what happened, and he says, "Don't get too cocky, Giroux."

Giroux snickers as he sees Crosby stomp out. He should lose more; it's a good look on him.

  


#

  


The Flyers have 65 points, just ahead of the 63-points Penguins, and Giroux would really like them to miss the playoffs.

The boys feel the same, they're skating hard, despite the slushy ice and those flightless bastards, battling for the puck along the boards, rushing the goalie any chance they get.

The Spectrum announcer screams out "Leiter's in a board battle with Van Impe-- and oh, it's turning into a tussle!"

Tussle would be way inaccurate, Giroux thinks grimly. At least Van Impe's smudging Leiter along the wooden boards, ignoring the punches to his face while trying to hurl Leiter through the glass and into the surging crowd. Potvin jumps in to hack at Leiter's legs with his stick, which makes Leiter rear back and slam his stick against Potvin's chest--

 _That_ starts off a 200-foot fight, with even the Penguins' goalie Binkley trying to haul Foley down to the ice, and Giroux leans on the board with his foot, amused. The Spectrum is whooping, chanting "LET'S GO FLYERS", like the best kind of broken record, and he's tempted to join them.

Crosby, though. He's standing there, smoking angrily, as he watches the zebras try and fail to break up the line brawl. Giroux smirks, leans back against the bench and listen to the Spectrum loudly boo the Pens with great vigor.

It takes about the time it takes for Crosby to inhale four cigarettes in quick succession for the players to finally agree, _yes, it's done, we'll skate off to the box_. Giroux glances up at the scoreboard: 3-2, in favor of Shits-burgh--

The referee skates up to Giroux, to tell Giroux all of his boys' sins, and Giroux's prepared to at least give some shrift to the man. But that swinefucker Crosby.

Crosby speed-walks the ten or so feet of ice that separates the bench, and the referee spins around, his eyebrows fully touching his hairline--

Giroux smirks down at him, says something along the lines of sending _his_ boys to their rooms without dinner, and starts smirking when he sees Crosby's teeth grind against each other. He doesn't get to finish his smirk though.

Because Crosby slugs him in the face, the fucker. Giroux punches Crosby in the gut, making him double over the boards, and the Flyers on the bench pulls Crosby over the wooden stills.

Giroux yanks Crosby in by his blouse, fist on Crosby's cheekbone. Crosby yanks himself away from Giroux's grip and backhands him across his mouth, a stinging slap. The only reason Crosby even gets away with that is because the ref interjects himself in between Giroux and Crosby, yanking them apart.

Breathing heavily, Giroux licks at his mouth. Fuck, blood's going to be a bitch to get out of his moustache. Giroux looks down the bench, at the row of feathered haircuts, demands, " I'm not real forgiving. Kick their fucking asses."

Now if only the boys can get a point out of this game. That'd be a real kick in Crosby's fat mouth.

  


#

  


Giroux licks at his mouth, tasting the iron from the cut on his lip, and faces the hotel door. The cheap wood irritates his hand as he touches it. But what even irritates him is the way the game ended; a tie, four to four, and the fucking Pens are _this_ close to edging them out of the playoff race. He hates ties.

Especially the one around his neck. Giroux yanks on his formerly lucky paisley tie, and pushes open the door.

Crosby's on top of the bedspread, just in his underwear and socks, feet dangling off the single bed. There's only one lamp in the room, covering the room in dim light, making the medallion around Crosby's neck glint. Giroux notices the priss wears _garters_ to keep his socks pulled up. Crosby must know Giroux's in the room-- he just scrunched up that nose, but he doesn't even open his eyes.

"Crosby," Giroux snarls, shoving his tie in his jacket pocket and then tossing his jacket on the rickety chair, "What do you have for me?"

It isn't until after Giroux toes off his shoes and shoves down his pants, when he bothers to look at Crosby looking at him, propping that ridiculous torso by his elbows, that Giroux realises he just said that in Quebecois.

Crosby's looking at him with something approximating neutral, but fuck Giroux having to repeat himself just because Crosby doesn't know Quebecois.  Instead Giroux walks towards the bed, smirks down at him, and taps the medallion on his neck, " _Saint-Christophe, eh?_ "

Crosby colors high on his cheeks and slaps away Giroux's hand, says, "Speak English."

Giroux snorts, says, "Catholic boy like you, you should know some Latin, that's almost the same as French."

Crosby's jaw clenches, "Are we friends, _Cloood_?"

"No," Giroux says, which makes Crosby smile so sharply Giroux's surprised he's not bleeding.

Crosby pulls Giroux down to his knees on the floor, hooks his thighs over Giroux's shoulders. Giroux looks up, mouthing the bulge in Crosby's briefs a little too hard, but he can feel Crosby's dick twitch under his lips. Giroux sucks harder, making the cheap cotton wet with his mouth, and Crosby thrusts his hips rudely against Giroux's face--

Giroux pulls off, says, "You're not a nice boy, _Sid_."

Crosby glares down at him, presses hard on the cut on Giroux's lip-- which _fuck_ , bleeds again-- swallows hard before he says, "You just realize this now, Giroux?", pushes him closer to Crosby's hard-on, and Giroux smirks up at him.

Crosby tangles his hands into Giroux's hair, presses his dick into Giroux's face, and Giroux scrapes a thumbnail down Crosby's inner thigh. Giroux yanks Crosby's underwear down far enough to expose his dick, making sure to let the elastic rebound right underneath his balls.

" _Fuck_ ," Crosby says, tightening his hold on Giroux's hair, his dick resting just on the bow of Giroux's lips. Giroux curls up one corner of his mouth before he sticks out his tongue, plays with the head of Crosby's dick-- which makes Crosby moan above him.

Giroux hums, slides his mouth further down, and swallows Crosby. Crosby thrusts just a little further in Giroux's mouth, making Giroux's lungs burn just a little, and Giroux moves his head faster. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop his eyes from watering, but it just makes Crosby's honking moans just that much louder, and _criss_ , Crosby's thick in his mouth.

Crosby's fucking his face, and Giroux chances a look up-- sees Crosby flushed brick-red, making the scar on his temple stand out in stark white-- and Giroux thumbs Crosby's asshole, the friction making Crosby shake and moan even as he shoves in further. Giroux presses his thumb in, just barely, and Giroux can feel Crosby start to come even before he chants, " _fuckfuckfuck_ ".

Crosby comes, salty and messy, and Giroux pulls off just enough for the last smear of come to land on his lip. Giroux raises his hand up to his mouth-- _shit_. Giroux shoves Crosby's thunder thighs off his shoulders, stands up, and glares at Crosby, who looks like he stumbled out of a whorehouse. Giroux wipes furiously at his chin; he can feel the blood getting tacky and--

There's a thin strip of blood on Crosby's dick, and Crosby looks down at it, looks up at Giroux, and strokes it, smearing the blood into his skin.

Giroux feels his dick twitch at that.

Crosby gives Giroux a crooked smile, and christ, does Giroux want to fuck that mouth and make him cry. Giroux shoves him back to the mattress, and straddles Crosby's wide torso. Crosby looks up at him, practically screaming _I dare you_ with his eyes. Giroux shoves down his underwear, drags out his cock, and thumbs Crosby's mouth.

Crosby's lips are dry from the ice. Giroux taps his thumb against the bottom of Crosby's lip, and says, "We can't all be as pretty as you, trout mouth."

Crosby sneers, "You looked pretty with my cock in your mouth, Frenchie," adds a sharp slap to Giroux's ass for good measure.

Giroux feels his face heat with anger, and he rocks his cock closer to Crosby's mouth, willing him to suck on it. Crosby does, but not before he looks up at Giroux with those eyes, and jesusfuck, Giroux _hates_ Crosby.

Giroux hates Crosby for being so good at sucking dick, the way he closes his eyes as Giroux pushes into his mouth, the way he rubs his tongue against the head-- so Giroux pins him down, lowers himself just that little bit further.

Crosby digs his nails into Giroux's skin, any place he can get, and it just urges Giroux on, makes him want to cry around his dick, even when Crosby does a clever, clever thing with his tongue that makes Giroux shake. Giroux reaches down, tangles his hands into Crosby's unraveling hair, and slides his dick over Crosby's tongue, riding his face.

Crosby moans breathlessly around Giroux, and Giroux clutches at Crosby's hair, bites his lip, and thrusts his way to orgasm, screwing up his eyes as he comes over Crosby's lips.

Giroux collapses on his side, breathing hard. Crosby looks good when he's licking off come, and Giroux has to smirk; _he_ put it there. Crosby reaches over, taps a pack of cigarettes before he flips it open, and lights up.

"Want one?" Crosby mutters, in a tone that implies that he does not share. Giroux shakes his head no, yanks his clothes back on. Giroux turns towards the door; why stick around if you don't have to?

"Giroux!" Crosby says. Giroux turns around, his eyebrows raised for what genius insult Crosby has-- "Hope you miss the playoffs!"

Giroux grits his teeth, smiles crudely, says, "Could say 'fuck you', but I've been there."

  


The rage on Crosby's face almost makes Giroux hard again, and Giroux smiles-- _really smiles_ \-- at him before he slams the door behind him.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Come".
> 
> My [tumblr](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com)!


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